Without waiting for a reply, I push back from the table, mumbling something about the restroom, and make my way through the crowd, weaving between tables and laughing strangers.
The hallway beyond the main room is dimmer, quieter, but the bathroom sign glows stark white, almost too bright.
I head straight for it, hoping the cold air will clear my head.
But the moment I step inside, everything changes.
White tiles. Harsh fluorescent lights glaring down from above. The faint hum of an air-conditioning unit, sharp and constant, like it’s drilling into my skull. The air smells faintly of disinfectant—a sterile, clinical brightness that makes my skin crawl.
My breath catches—tight, shallow.
The walls feel closer. My knees threaten to give way, and the ground tilts beneath me.
And suddenly—the room isn’t a bathroom anymore.
The past slams into me, uninvited and merciless.
* * *
It’s white. Everywhere. Blinding.
A strange hum—steady, low—buzzes at the edges of my mind. I can’t tell if I’m awake or dreaming. All I know is something keeps pulling me, forcing me back into this body I barely recognize.
Everything hurts.
My body feels heavy. Foreign. Like it’s been stitched together from broken parts that don’t quite fit anymore. I can’t move.
Breathing burns—sharp, raw—like I’ve swallowed fire and glass.
Somewhere nearby, voices stir.
One calm. Detached. Speaking words I can’t hold on to—swelling, pressure, coma. They slip right through me.
“Her system’s fragile. She’ll need time.”
The words drift, half-lost in the haze.
“…twenty-five days… We need to go slow.”
Twenty-five days?
My heart twists.
Panic claws at my ribs—but I can’t scream.
I try to open my eyes. The light slices through me—too harsh, too bright.
Then I hear her—Alexandra. My sister. Her voice cracks, trembling under the weight of her tears.
“Della… please. Please stay with me… please wake up…”
I try to speak, but my lips won’t move. I try to reach for her—but nothing answers.
I’m trapped inside my own body.
“If you can hear me… just squeeze my hand.” Her voice breaks again—soft but desperate, too close, too far.
Hand.
